Friday, October 26, 2007

Leaves

The winds are from the North now, crisp and almost cold.Green canopies of the soft leaves of a summer have long ago turned to red and gold.They lay on the ground to become next year's shreds of compost.

The mornings come frosty and dark.Evenings are dark and lonely.Only the leaves of the Oak resist the temptation to succumb.

The coyotes howl, and the lawyers expand their own fame.Time shrinks while duress eats more to roll in the pleasures of becoming fat.The sap of the Maple flows back to the roots.

Hard gray limbs stand naked to wait and bear the onset of ice and snow.Squirrels gather the few remaining acorns to store a little more wealth for the winter.The old Tamarack dies from blight.

The winds are cold now; they come down from the North.The mornings begin with clenched flesh and the evenings end with salty tears.The flow of life’s blood slows in the man.